Vial Bodies

by Thea Lacey

‘This time,’ she whispers as she presses the needle into the rubber lid. She tips the vial skyward and carefully pulls back the plug, drawing the transparent liquid into the syringe.

‘This time,’ she murmurs as she expels the bubbles with a practiced tap, pulls up her shirt and quickly, cleanly, pushes the needle into her stomach. Leaning back against the kitchen counter, she relaxes her shoulders with a sigh. She could do this in her sleep now.

He is slumped in an armchair on the other side of the room, part-hidden behind a newspaper. Not looking in her direction.

The needles had worried her in the beginning. She had always been a bit phobic. Who isn’t? She hadn’t liked the idea of the drugs either. How unnatural it all was. But she’d tried not to think about it too much.

‘Let me play doctor,’ he’d said with a mischievous grin the very first time.

He put on a kitchen apron and a silly accent and morphed into Dr Hamburger, a lecherous German physician. He pinched her bum and chased her round the kitchen with a tea towel. She laughed till her mascara ran.

‘Now I just geeve you zis leetle jab,’ he crooned after they’d caught their breath. Carefully, he administered the injection as the nurse had demonstrated. Then he kissed her, hard.

‘Wasn’t so bad, was it?’

It wasn’t. She handled it herself from then on.

‘Ectoplasm or viscera?’ He’d quipped, brandishing the new smoothie-maker, his idea, to launch their joint health drive.

They’d both quite enjoyed the brightly-coloured superfood smoothies and low-fat, high-protein meals. It wasn’t too hard to cut down on caffeine and alcohol. The jogging and yoga and cycling were fun. It had all felt pretty easy back then.

It was strange to think that before it all started, she had been the nonchalant one. Not entirely sure, frankly, if it was what she wanted. In no great hurry to add to their unit of two. But time had passed, and nothing had happened. And more time had passed, and still nothing had happened.

Then came the circus of appointments, tests and examinations. The scans, the drugs, the discussions with the consultant. The bills.

‘I’ve never failed at anything before,’ she had said one evening in Andalusia, their first break in eight months.

It was one of their favourite places. They had first come a year into their relationship, almost a decade before. The late summer sun was just dipping behind a hill dotted with cypress trees. He reached for her hand across the table.

‘You’re only half of this. And we’re not going to fail,’ he said, kissing her knuckles.

She’d prayed for a miracle that week. Prayed that the holiday magic would bring them special luck. But it didn’t. A month later they were on round five.

In the autumn, her little sister announced her news. She wanted so much to be happy for her, but instead spent two days in bed crying – big, shoulder-heaving, inconsolable sobs. He hugged her and made her a breakfast she couldn’t eat. He held her hand as she wailed at the unfairness of it all. When he left to play golf, she cried even harder.

A few days later she shook herself down, washed all the curtains and went to the hairdresser. Then she sat on the sofa and knitted an adorable pair of white booties. She wrapped them beautifully in tissue paper and ribbon and took them to her sister’s house full of smiles and cheer. When she got home, they talked and agreed they would try another round in the New Year.

‘They’re making me redundant.’

It was two weeks before Christmas. He had come home late, smelling of beer. It took a moment for the information to sink in.

‘But that’s not possible,’ she said.

It was possible. And it happened quickly. By the end of January he was spending much of the day collapsed in the armchair like a deflated balloon.

The slump ran to a week. Then two. Then three. Halfway through week four she showed him a job advert she’d spotted in the paper.

‘A man can enjoy a bit of time off, can’t he?’ he barked, waving it away. His tone startled her.

But he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself. He was lethargic and moody, his hobbies forgotten. Even golf.

The other thing was forgotten too.

‘We can’t afford it right now.’ He dismissed her curtly when she raised the question one evening. End of conversation.

It wasn’t true. They were down to just her salary. Things were tight. But not impossible. She was more than ready to forgo luxuries. Or necessities.

Just one more go, she thought. Just one. Now more than ever they needed this to work. One last chance.

‘My parents have offered to help us out,’ she told him.

In the past, his pride would never have allowed him to accept. But he was defeated, barely able to muster a response. Her calculation had been correct.

‘Fine. Whatever you want.’ He went back to the crossword.

* * * *

She feels calmed by the coolness of the kitchen counter pressing against her back. She glances at him on the other side of the room, wondering if he even knows she’s there.

‘This time,’ she breathes, raising her eyes to the sky, ‘please.’

She has found herself praying a lot recently. Although she’s not quite sure who she’s praying to. It feels desperate. She would never admit to it. But she doesn’t know what else to do.

* * * *

Behind his newspaper his eyes are closed.

‘Please,’ he entreats soundlessly to someone, something, anything.

‘This time.’